‘And you, what will you do?’
‘I don’t know, Riju. I have always wanted to travel.’ He tried to smile but failed. ‘And remember, if anyone asks about me, tell them General Saahas is dead, which is true in more ways than one.’
He watched the cart until it became a speck in the distance. With the midday sun beating down on him, he turned off on to the dirt track, leading his horse by the reins. His steps faltered. Weariness stole over him, weariness of the heart rupturing into his soul. He threw himself under a tree, his body wracked with sobs, hot tears scalding his face.
He wept for old Vasuket, for his father Meghabhuti, for his carefree youth. He wept for Anuj, for little Prem, the frightened orphan. And Dharaa. And Riju. He wept for his soldiers, his army that served another master now. He wept for his brigade that would wait for him in vain, waiting to return home. And he wept for Aum, broken and crushed, stinking with the foul deeds of those who had shackled it. His Aum, which had been his purpose, which had defined him, was gone, lost in the dust of Aham.
He drew up his knees to his chest, hugging them, curled in a foetal position. A chatter of voices filled his head, taunting him. You are a coward, they jeered. You ran away, a second time. Yes, stay safe, hide. Forget Aum, forget that you are scared.
‘No,’ he screamed, flinging mud and grass at his unseen tormentors. ‘That’s a lie. I am not scared. I am not!’ His tears fell into the dirt, raising a wonderful fragrance of wet earth so reminiscent of Aum. That whiff of home comforted him, soothed him, and the voices faded. His mind numbed to blankness, he at last fell into an exhausted sleep.
24
With the approach of nightfall, Saahas found himself outside a village encircled by a fence of pointed stakes, sharp enough to impale man or beast. Plumes of blue smoke rose up from the dwellings, announcing the preparation of the last meal of the day. A peasant pushed open the village gate, remarking in a nervous voice, ‘You are lucky you got this far. There is a tiger on the prowl.’
‘Brother, where can I find a place for the night?’
‘You can sleep in the temple compound a little further down this road,’ and the man quickly walked away, his bobbing lantern the only sign of his existence.
The temple was a small ramshackle place with an unearthly quiet atmosphere. A faint light glimmered from a hut beside it. ‘Who goes there?’ a man’s voice called out in the darkness.
‘I am a stranger in these parts, and in need of shelter,’ Saahas answered.
‘Come this way, son,’ the voice beckoned. The friendly invitation filled his heart with gladness, and he hurried towards the light. A lamp was raised to his face, a pair of sharp eyes under white brows keenly appraising him. ‘There’s a stable behind the temple. Leave your horse there.’
It was a simple meal of crusty chapatis and vegetables flavoured with roasted groundnuts, and Saahas licked his fingers unabashedly, sighing his satisfaction after the last morsel had been wiped off the leaf plate. The old man looked at him intently. ‘Now that you have eaten my salt, you owe me, soldier. You owe Yadoba.’
Saahas stiffened, his nerves jangling. Meghabhuti, Anuj, Agraj, all dead but victorious in fending off the savage Ugr to save the children of Yadoba. ‘If my life can be of any use to you, I would count myself fortunate,’ he answered heavily, ‘but how did you guess that I am a soldier? I carry no weapon nor am I dressed like one.’
The old man snorted, ‘I have been the pundit here for fifty years and not once have I travelled out of this village. Yet, I have learnt much from my simple life,’ he smiled, revealing the many gaps in his teeth. ‘Your body has all the markings of a warrior, like the unchanging stripes of a tiger.’
Saahas frowned, ‘A man mentioned a tiger when I was on my way here. What is that about?’
‘The beast most likely found its way here from the jungles of Shandav. It is rumoured that Aham soldiers gave it a taste for human flesh, feeding it their helpless victims. No one ventures out of the village after dusk for he prowls the boundaries like a night watchman.’ Getting to his feet, the priest shuffled to a wooden cabinet. ‘Come here,’ he beckoned Saahas, pulling out a heavy package and giving it to him.
As soon as he felt its weight, Saahas knew it was a sword. ‘Yes,’ the pundit nodded. ‘You will use this blade to rid us of the menace plaguing our village, and that is how you will repay my debt.’
The maneater did not attack Yadoba that night. Neither did it attack the following night, but news of the hero spread like bushfire in the small village. The chieftain and his people swarmed the temple compound, carrying little parcels of roasted gram and jaggery. ‘To build your strength,’ the priest told Saahas with a wry smile. ‘Not for a moment do they believe that you will kill the beast, but they are grateful that you are willing to die trying, which is why they bring you gifts.’
Saahas nodded, ‘A fitting end to a worthless life.’
The old man pursed his lips, observing the slumped shoulders. ‘Who am I to change your opinion about yourself, but I will tell you one thing, son, you will fight not only the maneater, but also the tiger that is devouring you from within. Whether you win or lose, fight you certainly must.’
On the seventh night of his stay, Saahas heard a low growl beyond Yadoba’s fence. ‘I wish I had Shakti,’ he muttered, glancing doubtfully at the sword in his hand.
The pundit had noticed Saahas’s look of disappointment when he had unwrapped the iron blade from its cotton sheet. ‘It may be ordinary,’ he had said in a quiet voice, ‘but your faith can transform it into the most lethal weapon.’
Peering through the wooden posts, Saahas discerned the large shape of the beast shaking the barricade with its front paws. Suddenly, the tiger retreated and ran into the fence, again and again, its growls getting louder. Saahas clutched the sword tightly, moving back a few paces, his mouth dry. The fence splintered, giving way and the tiger leapt inside with a terrible roar. Spotting a crouching figure, it halted, its tail lashing, a continuous rumble deep in its throat.
And then it charged, the open jaw revealing huge canines, the magnificent claws bursting out of the front paws, eager to slash the human. For a fraction of a moment, Saahas marvelled at its perfection, the strength and power rippling through its taut muscles. But then all too soon the tiger closed the distance between them. ‘Stay with me,’ Saahas whispered to the blade, his palms slick with sweat.
The tiger seemed to be approaching at an unusually slow pace, its savage features distorting, the eyes like twin points of yellow light. Eyes, beady and triumphant. Where had he seen them before? Manmaani. Fear pounded his heart, squeezing it painfully. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t cry out. Stumbling to his knees, he frantically sliced the air, hacking at two malevolent faces that suddenly sprang from the tiger’s head. Shunen and Ashwath.
The tiger pounced, the blade piercing it between the ribs. Roaring angrily, its brutal claws slashed Saahas’s face and shoulders.
‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all,’ Saahas panted, twisting the sword inside the animal, blood gushing over him. His hold slipped, and the tiger, in a desperate final attempt, clamped its fierce jaws on his chest. Pain exploded like a ball of fire, and as blackness closed over him, Saahas cried out, ‘Father, I couldn’t save Aum.’
He faded in and out of consciousness, mumbling and screaming, vaguely aware of whispers, of bitter medicines forced into his mouth. Faces haunted him, dissolving and changing, each more reproachful than the other. He saw his Shakti, tantalizingly close, and wept. Day and night he tossed restlessly, the blanket twisted around him, relaxing only at the touch of a firm hand. A raging thirst prodded him to open his eyes, and he found the priest holding a clay bowl to his lips.
‘Ah, you are awake at last,’ the old man smiled. ‘You have been hanging between life and death all through summer, but I knew, come winter, you would rise.’
Saahas learnt that after attacking him, the tiger had collapsed nearby, the sword still stuck in him. ‘And
this is from all of Yadoba,’ the priest placed a shimmering tiger skin in his hands. ‘The peasants have been ministering to you daily, bringing you food and medicine, praying at the temple of the Divine Mother, for the man who dared to face the brute.’
The gold and black stripes rippled, and Saahas remembered the tiger’s face almost touching his, the wide-open jaws, a black void sucking the life breath out of him. ‘I wish I had died too,’ he muttered.
The pundit shot him a keen glance over the rim of his steaming cup. ‘What is your name, young man?’ Noting the hesitation, he gave a slight nod, pulling out Vasuket’s ring from his pocket. ‘This was found near you.’ Saahas grasped the ring, a hunted look on his face. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are,’ the old man added serenely, ‘Destiny brought you here to rid us of a terrible menace.’
‘So, you set great store by Destiny?’ Saahas’s voice had a harsh rasp to it. ‘What if I hadn’t agreed to your condition? What if I hadn’t managed to stab the tiger?’
The priest looked thoughtful. ‘You are right. We can only control our own actions, not another’s. We have control over one wheel, our own, but there are many wheels, all interlinked and all turning at once. If you had refused to fight the maneater, I could have done nothing about it. But you agreed and that changed Yadoba’s future. Our wheel was interlinked with yours. You were destined to come this way. You were destined to live and the tiger, had to die.’
‘And what about Saade Saati, the fruitless seven and a half years that is said to befall each of us, at least once in our lifetime? Is that also part of Destiny’s plan?’
‘Yes of course, it is all her play.’ After a pause given to reflection, he added, ‘Frankly I have never understood why this period is considered . . . what did you say? . . . fruitless! It is quite obvious to me that it is just the opposite.’
‘But I was told it is a period when you meet with nothing but failure.’
‘Look at it this way, son,’ the priest stretched out on a straw mat. ‘Say a soldier, like yourself, has been busy fighting wars, safeguarding his kingdom, training daily, polishing his sword. And then, one day, he loses his job. He cannot understand why. Then he learns the Saade Saati is upon him. His wife tells him he needs to do something, earn a living, but the more he tries, the more he fails. But if the soldier were to take a deep breath, calm down and contain his vital energy instead of wasting it by running from pillar to post, he will realize that the Saade Saati, far from being a curse, is a boon. It is the gods telling us to stop and reflect, to know ourselves, learn a new trade perhaps, spend time with the family, study the scriptures. Anything—read, play, evolve.’
Read, play, evolve.
The words echoed within the small room, bouncing off the mud walls. A muscle jumped in Saahas’s jaw. The bleakness in him was like a yawning chasm, between him and his future.
‘I am not Destiny’s puppet, punditji,’ he bit out, knowing with sudden clarity what he was going to do. Leave Yadoba as soon as possible.
25
Standing on the terrace of his tall house, General Amsha faced the east, intently watching for signs of daybreak. Suddenly, he blew into his flute. ‘Wake up,’ he whispered, his slender fingers tapping the thin pipe gently. ‘It is time.’ A sleepy note yawned, shaking itself out, and warbled in the cold. Amsha continued to play, and the notes shivered into the air, slowly beginning to soar. Just as the first orange light of day touched the sky and the birds began to twitter, the notes swirled into the early morning raga, ethereal in beauty but hard as diamonds. The melody settled on the low boundary wall skirting Swarus, one layer after another, erecting an invisible barrier that, along with the rising sun, climbed high into the heavens.
The previous day, King Odav had lightly rapped him, ‘Have you noticed the foul air blowing into our kingdom? It comes from Aham. Do something to shut out this malevolence, Amsha.’
He had roused himself then, sunk as he had been in gloom for weeks. When he had first heard of Saahas’s death, he had shaken his head vehemently, refusing to believe it. But then a young mason, newly arrived from Aham, had informed him in a low voice, ‘They found his sword, my lord. It is displayed in Andheri, like a trophy.’
Amsha had sighed, his face sagging. ‘Yes, only death could part him from his blade.’ The mason had hung his head, wishing he could break the promise he had made. ‘If anyone asks,’ Saahas had told him, ‘tell them I am dead.’
Amsha sniffed. The air smelt fresh again, that putrid stench from across the border banished at last. Even the young mason, creating the garden path, straightened, inhaling more deeply. Walking over to admire the fine mosaic of coloured stones, Amsha remarked, ‘I was wondering if your wife would like to help with the housework? My home could do with another pair of hands.’
Riju’s face cracked into a beaming smile. And for a moment Amsha recalled the first time he had seen him, a few months ago, staggering into Swarus, carrying his broken, little wife. ‘It would be perfect, my lord,’ the mason exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t be worrying about her then. May I fetch her, please? Perhaps she could begin right away?’
Amsha laughed, his long earrings playfully swinging, ‘Go on then, get her.’
Riju burst into the small house that he had lovingly constructed in a patch bathed in dappled sunshine. But Dharaa wasn’t home. He asked for her at the neighbour’s, then searched for her in the marketplace, an old, familiar fear beginning to gnaw at his insides.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he told himself, ‘this is Swarus, she is safe here.’ But still his heart thudded, the air escaping his lungs in terrified gasps. Loud shouts from across the road drew his attention to a park, famed for its musical fountains, one of the many wonders conjured by Amsha’s flute.
A group of boys, armed with swords and sticks, practised synchronized moves, uttering throaty yells each time they attacked their opponent. Standing near them was a lean, spare man, occasionally stepping in to correct a stance. And watching them wide-eyed was Dharaa, peeping from behind a tree. Riju drew a deep breath, his gaze lingering over her. The cheekbones, once softly curving, were angular, enhancing the blue shadows under her eyes. Yet, she had recovered well, the mellow climate of Swarus healing the wounds in her body and mind quickly. Although she still suffered from nightmares, she woke up bright each morning, eagerly absorbing the life-force of the lilting music pervading the kingdom’s atmosphere.
‘Do you want to learn?’ he whispered in her ear.
Dharaa spun into his arms, going on tiptoe to brush her lips lightly against his. ‘How did you guess?’
He grinned, pinching her chin, ‘I know you better than you know yourself. Come, let’s speak to the instructor.’
But she hung back, ‘It looks like a boys-only class.’
‘So what? If you are sure, then nothing can stop you.’
Their eyes locked and her hand gripped his tightly. ‘I want to be a warrior,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘And I want to open a school, to train other girls. No woman should go through what I have without being able to defend herself.’
Walking softly past the sleeping men, Nirmohi went to the mouth of the cave, staring out at the night. The rugged mountains of Yamathig towered around her, silent sentinels of her abode.
‘Where is he?’ she asked them. ‘He should have returned a long time ago.’ Sitting down on a boulder, she froze in thought, the mountains hunkering down to watch. The night sped past and Yamathig straightened up with the rising sun but still she didn’t move. It was almost evening when she stirred, her fingers twirling a silver lock of hair.
‘So, it must be this way,’ she murmured. ‘A journey of the alone to the alone.’
‘Is it sire, Your Highness?’ The voice was taut with worry. She turned slowly, appraising the lanky Gondi. The grave eyes, arching slightly towards the hollowed temples, looked back at her fearfully. ‘Is he . . . is he . . . dead?’ The rest of the brigade crowded behind him, painful anxiety in every pale face.
‘No, Tota,’ she shook her head, ‘but he is not returning. Not anytime soon.’
‘Where is sire, Your Highness?’ Lushai, his face working, pushed his way through the knot of men. ‘I must go to him.’
Nirmohi shrugged. ‘All I sense is a journey. Where he is and where he will go next, that is hidden from me.’
The manservant buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
‘What are we to do now?’ The brigade looked dazed, shattered.
‘Saahas has not abandoned you. He is in search of answers. You too must find yours.’
‘But where should we begin?’
‘Here,’ she answered, eyebrows slightly raised. ‘Let Yamathig guide you.’
26
King Pavitr held the lamp high above his head. His shadow flickered on the walls of the narrow gallery, extending and looming over the paintings of royals as he slowly walked past them. At last he stopped before King Yajatha. The old king looked imposing, his stern gaze resting on the living monarch. Pavitr stood strong, his chin slightly lifted to meet Yajatha’s stare. ‘Aum is recovering fast,’ he said. ‘The people are moving away from the soul-killing rituals of the temple priests. They are finding strength, a new energy within themselves.’ He drew a breath and then added in a soft voice, ‘You will be happy to know that the memory of the monastery is fading from Aum’s consciousness.’
A pigeon’s sudden fluttering distracted him. The bird was unable to find its way out, beating its wings frantically against a screened window. Pavitr turned back to the painting. It seemed to him that Yajatha had shrunk, his eyes full of sorrow. ‘I will have it set free,’ he assured him and almost instantly realized the irony of his words. His throat constricted with compassion. ‘Please, let go of your burden, set yourself free. I am certain mother has forgiven you.’
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